A lady living down the road from us had bought her husband a pair of peacocks for his 40th birthday....as you do! It would appear that with precious little knowledge of their new subject, the couple had opened the box and allowed the two birds to walk free, rather assuming that they would immediately understand the boundaries and strut their magnificence in a trouble free manner until the day they died. Yeah right!
Having burst from their confinement they flew off immediately, with the male making his way along the road from house roof to house roof and the crowd of admiring neighbours growing ever bigger with each new roof. And so the multicoloured lump arrived on my roof...........I saw dinner, my wife saw peacocks.......she won.
It was shortly after this unspoken agreement on the birds fate that it decided to fly down into our back garden. I ran around to the back garden anticipating a capture, pat on the back and words of congratulation. Oh how wrong I was. The bird was srutting its stuff on the felted area of the aviary roof, with my birds screaming in indignation that their dinner was just out of reach. Not for long!
With a glorious swish of its rainbow tail it strutted out onto the wire roof wherupon my Saker launched herself at the wire netting and locked both of her well-armed feet firmly into the peacock's foot. The screeching from the peacock could have been heard in France at which point I was running around like a nutter to find a pair of steps to get onto the aviary roof. With steps in hand I managed to get onto the roof whereupon the peacock went ballistic. (maybe if you'd seen my face you'd understand)
There was nothing majestic about the flying rag-bag that ultimately flew off from the aviary roof with broken feathers everywhere and a badly punctured and bloody foot. We never did hear what the final outcome was, nor did we hear the peacocks themselves. Hmmmmmm.
My Saker didn't forgive me for days after I had stolen the best 'kill' she'd ever made!
Published on Saturday 04th December 2010 - 05:43:16 PM by Brian
"Good morning, Slicit and Stitchum Vets can I help you" (yeah, ok, maybe I made up the name to save me from getting sued)
"I have a bird with a broken wing" "Can I look in this morning and get it x-rayed"?
"Certainly sir would you like to come along now"?
"That would be great, thank you"
"Can I have the bird's name and species please"? (I can only assume they wanted the bird's name so that they could address it respectfully?)
"The birds name is Shoni and she's a Harris Hawk"
"I'm sorry, what species is she"?
"She's a Harris Hawk"
"So what species is that"?
"It's a hawk, the clue is craftily hidden in the name ...if you just rearrange the letters in exactly the same order that they are in now.............."
"Just a minute sir" (she disappears to speak with a vet)................................................ ................................"Hello sir, I'm sorry but we don't touch exotics"
"I'm not asking you to touch her, I simply want an x-ray on her wing" "I will keep her under control"
"Just a minute sir"................................................ ................................"Hello sir, I'm sorry but we don't touch exotics"
(Oh shit, deja vous.) "So you said." "Let me make this clear for you - my bird is in pain with a broken wing, you are a veterinary surgery and I simply want an x-ray!" "A wing is a wing whatever bird it is attached to...I JUST WANT AN X_RAY"!!!
"Sorry sir but hawk wings are different to other wings and we don't touch exotics"
Stunned silence followed as I took on board the stupidity of the statement that I had just heard. Needless to say I have never bothered to visit this vet again.
And the moral of this story? Choose your vet carefully BEFORE you need him.
Published on Sunday 15th August 2010 - 02:31:23 PM by Brian
"My bird lays fertile eggs every year but the bugger won't sit on them" These were the immortal words uttered by a frustrated friend. "Well my old female sits for the duration on at least four infertile eggs every year" said I, "so why don't you bring some fertile eggs over and whack then under her"? And so it was agreed. Some weeks later said friend arrives clutching (no pun intended) two fertile eggs that we duly mark with a tiny pencil cross on the end of each egg for identification purposes and place them under my female, whilst removing two of her own infertile eggs. Bless her, she makes no fuss and accepts the two eggs immediately. Now this old girl of 19 years is the sweetest natured bird imaginable and will happily accept me walking up to her while she is on the nest, lifting her slightly and allowing me to take a peek at the eggs. For a week she sat tight on all four eggs, turning them and caring for them. One evening some days later I went into her aviary, lifetd her and found only two eggs. Looking around her I found the two missing eggs and picked them up - both were stone cold and both had a tiny pencilled cross on one end. I carefully candled both eggs and could clearly see an embryo, dead in shell. What did she know and how did she know it?
I wish I had the answer.......
Published on Sunday 15th August 2010 - 02:30:42 PM by Brian
“Hey fella, can you put a tail mount on my bird for me?” The request was straight to the point and answered in the same fashion “yes”. An appointment time was set and at the designated time Mr. Anon turned up at the door.
Once in the shed the bird was removed from its travelling box …….it had no deck feathers and virtually no tail. What tail it did have were feathers that were shortly due to moult. Stating the obvious (as you do) I said “the bird has no tail to speak of and what it does have is due to moult” “Oh yes” he said, “I knew that but thought that maybe you could put the tail mount somewhere else” “And your suggested location for the tail mount might be where” I said, not really wishing to hear the answer. His reply………….“On the wing”?
Even speechless didn’t do the situation justice!
Published on Sunday 15th August 2010 - 02:29:49 PM by Brian
It was 6.30am on a Sunday morning. The sun, (like me) was not yet awake and my telephone was ringing persistently and without a care about the time of day. Following a few expletives, (quite a few I imagine) I dragged myself out of bed and answered the telephone.
“My bird is nearly dead” said the voice at the other end of the line without wasting time on introductions. Oh joy, I thought, it’s the crack of dawn and I have just been appointed the role of veterinary practitioner. “You need to speak to a vet” I said. “I’ve tried calling the vet but there is no answer” said the mystery insomniac. "Please help"
“So what is the problem”? “I don’t know, my bird hasn’t eaten anything for the last three days and now he’s collapsed”
Bearing in mind the fact that it is mid-hawking season and the bird was at hunting weight, the prognosis could have looked better! “Well”, I said, “I’m not a vet but you’d better bring the bird over straight away and I’ll see if there is anything that we can do to keep the bird going until you can contact a vet” Half an hour later the gentleman arrived at my door with a male Harris’ wrapped up in a towel, the bird looking for all the world as if it had breathed its last, and one very sorry looking falconer. Come to think of it, I don’t suppose I looked too fantastic either.
Almost before the bird had been removed from its mummifying towel robe, the smell was overwhelming. Thank God I had not had breakfast before they arrived as the consequences could have been messy! The bird was placed on clean towels on my work bench and the inspection began…..and ended, immediately. The lump in the crop was unmistakable – a long bone. I had never had to deal with this sort of thing before so it was a case of ‘make it up as you go along’.
The bird was crop tubed with a glucose/saline solution to hydrate the bird and lubricate the crop, its head was tilted backwards and with me, being on the point of ejecting my Saturday evening meal due to the stench, I proceeded to manipulate the bone in the crop…………. Bingo! The end of the bone appeared in the back of the bird’s throat and a pair of forceps finished the job. Out came the hind leg bone of a rabbit, complete with paw and measuring something close to 6” when straightened out. At this point, both the mystery falconer and I were gagging for fresh air and looking a little green. The bird was crop tubed again in an effort to dilute any muck that was left in the crop, at which point the previously comatose bird stood up!
I’m not sure who was more surprised, me, the mystery falconer (who was now in tears) or the wobbly male Harris’ that was now starting to look cockily defiant.
I had some good quality beef that had been left out from the night before to feed my own birds, and a quantity of this was presented to the bird who finished it off quicker than a greased Linford Christie in a hurry – (Usain Bolt wasn’t around then!) My mystery falconer, now in floods of tears, thanked me and left.
Two days later he telephoned to tell me that the bird was back to full strength and fighting fit. He also told me that the next time he fed rabbit he would make sure the long leg bones were broken up first!
What a result.
Published on Monday 27th September 2010 - 11:13:20 PM by Brian
This page has been added today and is intended to be generally light-hearted tales that have been told in my falconry shed.
If you have anything that you would like to appear here, please e mail your story to Brian (without real names mentioned) and we will whack it on here for a while.
You don't have to keep it too clean, just please don't go overboard as I can do without the job of editor.
Thanks, Brian
Published on Sunday 15th August 2010 - 02:27:51 PM by Brian
